


Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte

by longwhitecoats



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Italian literature, Literary References & Allusions, PWP, the cannibal your cannibal could fuck like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the events of 3.01, "Antipasto." Pasta Without Plot. You know what I'm saying. Story is in English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte

Hannibal is annoyed with himself the moment he says it— _What would you have me do, Bedelia?_ —but he is unable to relinquish his frustration with her, petty as it is, and though it is not her fault. Her relief at the prospect of an evening unvisited by death is as palpable as her distaste for their dinner guest, and Hannibal finds it bitter that he must show restraint on this score. He can of course be patient; but to have his companion take solace, even _pleasure_ , in his being so constrained is nigh intolerable.

Bedelia, for her part, neither replies nor follows him to the kitchen as he begins tidying their meal. He hears the sound of the bathroom taps, and then the gentle, liquid noise of Bedelia stepping into the bath.

She’d surprised him, at dinner. Crudity ought to have been too low for his polished, manicured bride, faux or not; and yet her words— _he’s very particular about how I taste_ —were delivered with such challenge in her eyes, as if daring their guest to find her behavior _grezzo_ , that Hannibal found himself amused. And when Dimmond asked her if it was _that kind of party_...?

Hannibal had no idea what Bedelia would say to that. In fact, until he saw the look on her face, he was entirely prepared to follow her lead into all manner of unusual dinner pursuits. He knows little of Bedelia’s sexual appetites; they have never been important to his relationship with her, and she has shown no interest in sharing any of the earthier delights with him. In all things, he respects her wishes, if not her independence—although, if he is honest with himself, he must admit that she impressed him with both her intelligence and panache when she eluded him the first time. He delights in the unpredictability of his companion, the glimpse of something feral and canny between the primly manicured hedgerows. Certainly he would never entertain the notion of an unwanted sexual advance toward her, a cruder gesture by far than a lewd remark at dinner. He is even careful not to touch her without invitation. At any rate, he is pleased by their intricate dance of politeness. In Italian, he remembers, the word for this is _educazione_ —a learned etiquette, the opposite of the common rustic life.

He puts down the dish he’d been washing and closes his eyes in contentment. He is in Italy again; that is a great pleasure. It has been too long.

Bedelia calls him from the other room.

“ _Un momento_ ,” he says, drying his hands. He goes to the bath. “Yes, Bedelia?”

But she is not there; the sound, he realizes, must have come from her bedroom. The door is just slightly ajar; both an invitation and a tease. He pushes it open.

His prick stirs in his pants for the first time since he left his former lover.

Bedelia is upright in the overstuffed chair by her writing desk, hair damp, legs crossed. She eyes Hannibal with polite approval as he enters. Save for the unkempt nature of her hair and lack of makeup, she might well be about to offer Hannibal a belated therapy session.

And, that is, except for the fact that she is in the nude.

“Hannibal,” she says again, and there is a new note in her voice: excitement, perhaps, a kind of libidinous trepidation. “I’ve reconsidered.”

“What have you considered?” he says, leaning against the doorway.

She uncrosses her legs and does not recross them. Her pubic mound is not shaved; dark hair curls attractively between her thighs, covering anything more from view. Yet he finds the sight more erotic than he would if she were wholly exposed. Her coyness excites him.

“It occurred to me that I’m not sure I told our guest the truth,” she says in that breathless way of hers. She holds his gaze. “I don’t know if you do like the way I taste.”

Hannibal permits himself a miniscule smile.

“I thought you said I was unconcerned with maintaining appearances,” he says, unfolding his arms and walking toward her.

Bedelia looks up at him from heavy-lidded eyes. “I believe I said your concerns were aesthetic.”

The space between them is small, now, and charged. If he touches her, what will that mean?

“And while you’re better versed in Florentine aesthetics than I am,” she says, leaning back, “I believe they dictate a certain amount of salaciousness.” She parts her thighs; Hannibal allows himself to look. She is wet with more than water, staining the silk of an 18th-century chair.

“Boccaccio would agree,” Hannibal says. “And in the tradition of his _Decameron_ : I will follow the lady’s lead.”

Bedelia considers him for a moment. Her gaze has always felt cool to him, an intricate match for his own carefully arranged expressions; now there is some heat behind her eyes.

“Then kneel,” she says, daringly, “and taste.”

Hannibal does not habitually employ his mouth in this manner, his relationship with Alana notwithstanding. On a few occasions, he offered it to her as a means to end, to play the part of the attentive lover. That was mere performance, although the deceit offered its small pleasures. There is no performance here.

Or, he thinks, lowering himself to his knees before Bedelia’s spread legs, perhaps it is all performance—a _commedia_ on a grand scale. He admires the precision of Bedelia’s demeanor, the sculpted curls of her hair, the simultaneous langour and mordancy of her speech. She is a self-made work of art, just as he is. That she has chosen to unveil this to him now by no means signifies an intimacy. Rather, she has drawn back the curtain on a new scene, and he is eager to see the play.

Like Hannibal, Bedelia knows when to cloak and when to reveal. She is a master of prestidigitation.

He grasps the wooden legs of the chair in his hands, bracketing Bedelia’s legs. The soft cloth of Hannibal’s collar brushes her thighs as he leans forward. He smells her before he tastes her: salt, and the lavender of her soap, and the hot scent that is only ever the smell of flesh.

He opens his mouth. He licks her, letting his tongue penetrate her, feeling the tenderness of her. The first taste is an animal musk; underneath, she is sweet and a little spicy, like clove, though whether this can be attributed to her recent diet he does not know. He doubts it; both medical and personal experience suggest to him that everyone has an essential flavor which can be but little altered. The experience, at any rate, is not unpleasant. It reminds him of eating a well-made _foie gras_.

“I approve,” Hannibal says, his face still between her thighs. He feels her shiver at the feeling of his exhalation. “May I demonstrate my aesthetic appreciation?”

He waits, muscles tensed.

“You may,” Bedelia says, and Hannibal sets to work.

The angle of his approach affords him leverage, and he uses it, pressing hard into her with little warning. He releases the chair and uses his hands, one to stroke her, one to enter her and then withdraw. All his movements are slow but delivered with great firmness and intensity, so that she cries out once or twice when he is buried to the knuckles in her. And with his mouth, he sucks at her, laps at her, even bites very gently, until he feels the thick muscles of her thighs begin to shake.

“Wait,” she breathes, and he stops. He does not remove his hands. “Not yet.”

“Something more you desire?”

He looks up at her; she is breathing hard, her lips flushed pink without cosmetic aid. “I’d ask you that question.”

“Therapy habits die hard,” Hannibal says, lips quirking in amusement. “Turning a question around on a patient.” He runs his thumb over her labia, gently, and she shudders with obvious pleasure. He considers this; a panoply of acts in which they might engage have come to mind, but there are a select few in which Hannibal might take pleasure. “Perhaps you will find my desires unconventional,” he says.

Bedelia makes a small noise of sardonic amusement. “I would be disappointed otherwise.”

Hannibal tilts his head, thinking. “Shall I tell you, or show you?”

A visible current of fear runs through Bedelia then. Even now, her animal hindbrain persists in warning her of the danger Hannibal presents; even now, her rational mind tells her that he is unlikely to harm her just yet. The dance of fear and reason inside her is perfectly intoxicating to Hannibal. It is the most precious thing about her, how she is simultaneously so fragile and so powerful, so fearful and so clever. He remembers how she shook when he found her in her office so long ago, covered in blood, having summarily overpowered a man who should have dispatched her easily.

How exquisite she is, this murderess.

“Show me,” Bedelia says, and Hannibal’s half-taut prick is suddenly ripe with blood.

He kisses her thigh once, and then bites it, considerably harder than before; she exhales sharply, but she does not cry out. She is capable of enduring pain, then.

He stands, and he gestures to the bed. “On your stomach, please.”

She looks him over rather pointedly before she rises and goes to the bed. Hannibal takes her meaning; as she arranges herself on the covers, Hannibal begins unbuttoning his vest and shirt. He makes her wait as he undresses. When he is bare, he goes to the bed and kneels over her calves. She makes a small noise, but otherwise does not react. She is tense.

He puts his hands on her buttocks, then, and spreads them, and hears a sharp intake of breath as Bedelia realizes what is about to happen.

Florence has a long history of sodomy, Hannibal reflects as he licks at her cleft. True, he has read no accounts of men performing such acts with women in the golden days of Florentine culture; but Hannibal doubts that the great men of art were so narrow in their desires. He imagines Brunetto Latini with his face pillowed in a woman’s buttocks. The thought amuses him. 

Bedelia gasps beneath him as he begins working his tongue on her in earnest. He suspects this is the first time she has had such an experience; she seems to find it pleasurable, if also, to gauge by the deep flush of her skin, somewhat humiliating.

“Oh,” she whispers. Again: “Oh, _oh_.”

He stops, then, and slowly moves to fit his lips between her shoulder blades, his hips behind hers. He presses against her, but does nothing more. He wishes to know if she will ask him for it.

For a moment, they lie together, Bedelia’s shuddering breaths shaking them both.

“Do it,” she says, and the command in her voice stings him with both indignation and delight.

He is careful to be slow, but slow is enough: she moans as he enters her, canting her hips up to meet him, though there is little need from this angle. He feels a hot, dark pleasure spread in his chest. The sodomitic act, when performed on a woman, is in a way a negation not only of the copulative drive, but of its end: it is purely sexual without being generative. It is the opposite of a life-affirming act. In its own way, it is a filthy _memento mori_.

Hannibal unsheathes himself nearly all the way, enjoying Bedelia's whimpers as he does so; and then with no little viciousness, he drives back into her hard, satisfied by her cry of pain. He does it again. “ _Hannibal_ ,” she says this time, and they are in earnest, now, and he has no need of pleasantries, and so he grips her hands hard enough to bruise and gives himself over to his lusts.

He is surprised when she turns her palms to return the grip. One of her painted nails cuts him, leaving a drop of blood on the golden coverlet. 

“Hannibal,” she says again as he works her, his hips grinding into her at the end of each thrust. “Oh.”

Her skin is very pale and fine, he thinks, feeling her heat and tightness around him. She is quite—quite—

The sound he makes is not quite a roar; but he has little doubt that the noise carried through the open window. 

Hannibal releases one of Bedelia’s hands and slips his own underneath her, pulling her hips towards his so he can reach her.

“Yes,” she breathes as he touches her. “Yes, now—”

She begins to shake, and she does not stop shaking for several minutes. Hannibal counts at least three climaxes; he persists until he feels her hand covering his, at which he stills. Bedelia does not move, remaining on her knees, joined to him.

The room is quiet except for their breath.

At length, Hannibal leans down and presses a single kiss between Bedelia’s shoulder blades. The sound she makes is not quite a laugh.

He unwinds himself from her, finds the edge of the bed, and stands. She does not look back at him.

“ _Buona sera, cara mia_ ,” Hannibal says.

He gathers his clothes. When he is at the door, he hears a rustle, and turns to look. She is sitting at the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the fabric.

“ _Buona sera, dottore_ ,” Bedelia replies.

He nods, and he goes to finish up the dishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Toft for a swift and excellent beta! 
> 
> The title is from Canto I of Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , and it means, "So bitter is it, death is little more." It's the line Hannibal mentions at dinner with Bedelia and Dimmond when he says that Dante believed fear was almost as bitter as death. 
> 
> My Italian is not terrific, so I apologize if I've used it incorrectly. "Grezzo" means "vulgar" or "rude," in kind of a coarse, dirty way. 
> 
> "Memento mori" is Latin; it was a reminder to the reader that they would die someday, and it's often translated as "Remember, you must die." 
> 
> Other references are left as an exercise to the reader.
> 
> I hope you liked it. :D


End file.
